The Last Papaya

The cable guy was three hours late, which meant Elena was three hours late for her own life's recusal. She'd spent the morning running—in circles, literally, around the hotel pool, trying to outpace the thoughts she couldn't shake. Her divorce papers were sitting in her suitcase like a loaded gun.

She cut into a papaya at the breakfast bar, the fruit's salmon flesh bleeding onto her plate. It reminded her of happier mornings, Marco's hands sticky with juice as he fed her pieces across the table. That was before the lying, before the hotel room receipts, before everything turned into evidence.

"I'm here for the cable," the technician said, appearing behind her. He was younger than she expected, maybe twenty-five, with eyes that had already seen too much.

"Room 317," she said automatically, then realized she didn't need the cable anymore. She was checking out. "Actually, never mind."

He shrugged. "Your call. But you're paying for the install regardless."

Elena watched him walk away, his equipment belt clinking with each step. That's when she saw it—the tiny teddy bear keychain on his belt loop, its fur matted and one eye missing. The same bear Marco had given her their first Christmas together.

She caught up to him at the elevator. "Where did you get that bear?"

He looked surprised, then defensive. "My girlfriend gave it to me. Said it was vintage."

"What's her name?"

"Maria. We met at a resort in Cabo. She was staying there alone, said she was going through a divorce."

Elena felt the air leave the room. Marco had told her he found the bear at a flea market.

"This Maria," Elena said, her voice steady. "Does she have a scar on her left shoulder?"

He nodded. "How did you—"

"Because I'm Elena. And I'm pretty sure you're sleeping with my husband."

The elevator doors opened. They both stepped inside, standing on opposite sides of the metal box, descending together into the truth they'd both been running from.